


Fixations

by aaronwarnerisabeautifulstorm



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Abuse Fetish, Blood and Injury, Cannibalistic Thoughts, M/M, Masochism, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 19:16:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18079337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aaronwarnerisabeautifulstorm/pseuds/aaronwarnerisabeautifulstorm
Summary: Everyone has them. In Illumi and Hisoka's case, however, fixations manifest in stranger ways than most.





	Fixations

**Author's Note:**

> Or in which Illumi is a big fan of Blue Velvet and the Broken Bird trope (and so is Hisoka, in a reverse kind of way).

_**Illumi** _

XXX

It’s mainly the smell what draws Illumi towards him, what halts his hand in the air mid strike, what makes him grant his victim one last wish before his death. It’s what makes his gaze to become slightly unfocused at the edges, his taste buds to start salivating, his nose to sniff compulsively— he lets the pitiful man go and follows him, knowing where his bloodless stumbling through the foliage will lead him, closer and closer still to the tantalizing scent.

He finds him like that, sitting on a log without a care in the world, his naturally narrow eyes clinically examining the corpse of the nameless competitor Illumi just let go of. There are a thousand things that can be said about Hisoka and most of them, relegating comments made about his murderous and perverted habits to the side, have to do with his distinct stylistic choices regarding his appearance— the clashing nature of brightly colored hair, the jester apparel that certainly is unfit for blending in, the exaggerated amount of make- up he subjects his skin to, the flamboyant femininity displayed in some of his clothing (the heels, Illumi thinks, unable to stop himself, and, sometimes, the earrings), but none of that is nearly as fetching or as loud as the point of reunion of a dozen of hovering crimson butterflies: Hisoka is wounded, Illumi knows that, has known for at least two days after he cleared the Tower and found Hisoka waiting at the bottom; he remembers that ever since he has caught his gaze straying to Hisoka’s shoulder often, he remembers his surprise every time, the painful ache in his chest, the pleasant humming in the undercurrent of his thoughts, the waves of cold and heat taking a hold of his body in intervals, and how all of that returns to him, like an electric shock to his system, as his attention succumbs to the bloody pucker of skin on the magician’s shoulder, all the more violent for how it contrasts with the man’s otherwise immaculate looks.

The cut was superficial, but it broke through Hisoka’s defenses (maybe on purpose) and the flaps of flesh are obscenely apart from each other, the borders are crude looking, severed, a bit corroded from not receiving treatment, and the layer of meat that laid protected beneath still retains a fleshy color that warms Illumi’s guts, that looks healthy and pretty enough to slide a tongue in the midst of it, perhaps, and—

The taste. Imagining the taste, Illumi swallows incandescent words, burying pins on his palms to ground himself.

For the life of him he can’t remember much of the exchange that occurred right then, except for the nonchalance in which Hisoka shrugged away his current state, the subdued joy in the upward twist of his mouth, and the uncaring contour of his wounded shoulder; exposed, an upsetting range of red, it was hard to look away from the open slide of flesh.

A butterfly harmlessly descended on top of his arm, aiming for the wound. Illumi couldn’t stop staring at the tiny little feet that went under the first layer of skin and touched the hearth below.

* * *

 

There is a bruise on Hisoka’s face. Angry, it ravishes half of his visage— a combination of red, green and purple that darkens to almost black then fades into less swollen skin at the right side of his nose. There is no ridiculous drawing on that cheek, just the big, perfectly placed bruise, on top of which an eye slouches, nearly shut. His lips, for the first time in a long while, are coated in a deep burgundy that brings into stark relief the vivacious curve of his mouth alongside the insistent notoriety of the mark. When a tongue comes out to moisture them, they glisten, wet and alluring.

Illumi takes his cup of tasteless black coffee, brings it to his mouth to have an excuse not to speak, and imagines the flow of a different liquid as he swallows. His legs cross beneath the table. Hisoka grins, worsening the beat up vibe he is so obviously going for because, for a moment, he is on the cusp of innocence, blissfully ignorant of the effect his rotten smile has, put in the same package as the dark coloration distinctly indecent as it blooms next to teeth.

“You look positively parched,” Hisoka purrs, every bit as arrogant and unself-conscious, like there is not a hair out of place, not a thing out of ordinary, “Rough day?” The smirk he is wearing curls around the straw of his strawberry milkshake and starts sucking.

Sharp nails ascend to the perturbed surface of his inflamed cheek, tapping, absentmindedly tracing the edges of the aggression.

“Not particularly,” And Illumi’s gaze flies to the table, to the window, the comings and goings of the environment surrounding their enforced bubble.

Illumi rubs his thighs together, willing the scorching heat pooling there to go elsewhere. 

He spends the duration of their meeting terribly distracted, eyes averted as much as they can from the man sitting in front of him.

* * *

 

Once, Illumi is bothered enough by Hisoka to make a grab for him. He is talking nonsense about Killua, again, the jaw that keeps mouthing off is asking to be rearranged, again, and Illumi doesn’t allow a second of hesitation to detain him from trapping an elegant wrist in the grip of his violence-seeking fingers. Consequence does not take long to arrive, and by the time Illumi realizes his mistake it’s already too late, he is already exerting pressure, his fingers are already molding the skin in their hold, bone is already creaking in protest and Hisoka’s expression is already turning delirious.

He couldn’t have foreseen the malleable quality of Hisoka’s wrist, nor the way it tenderly yields when he pushes on; Illumi releases him, and it really doesn’t matter that he did, because he can still feel the spiking pulse beating against his fingers, can fully visualize the damning evidence of his anger, the indentations crawling all over the circle of his wrist, furiously throbbing drops of ink that reproduce the form of the assassin’s pads.

“Oh,” the jester sighs, nearly in a daze, and cradles his arm against his chest, like a flustered maiden. He is shivering, licking his lips, throat blushing. Shamelessly excited as well as seemingly defenseless, his wrist fragile looking, bare and aggressively changing from red to purple, getting more and more sore, impossibly roused, and there is Illumi, thrumming with energy because he felt it bend, felt it crumble under him, was the one who made it so, so breakable, so delicate.

His own wrist trembles, his fingers clench and unclench, aching with the ghost of Hisoka’s skin.

That night, when Illumi slips a hand inside his pajama pants, it’s to the memory of a bulging wrist and the surprised ‘o’ shaping of an impertinent mouth.

* * *

He doesn't wonder what a ring of bruises would look like adorning the underside of muscled thighs, his hands tightly wrapped around them, sinking in, merging as one.

He doesn't choke at the fantasy of grabbing onto oddly bony heels and forcing them far away from one another, revealing all that there is to feed on, of squeezing poking hips until they are flushed in the image of his iron grip, pelvic bone slapping into phalanges, melting beneath them.

His mouth doesn't waver  and drool at the non existent sensation of jawbone giving in to the loving assault of fangs as they leave rows and rows of leaking bites, of lips coercing lips into submission, swallowing the irreverent commentary, the venomous spiel, substituting them with his spit and the might of his want.

Moreover, Illumi doesn't wonder what it would be like to take a piece of him for himself, tug dermis and blood free, a piece of an ear, or a finger, or the area slightly under the curve of his ass, or an agitated nipple, and chew on it, chew on the meat like it were from any other animal, savor the leathery, fibrous thing till' it is engraved into the core of his being that it is finally a possession of his. Only his.

* * *

 

“You are hurting me ♡” Hisoka sing songs, eyes alight, while Illumi tears unintentionally at the raised flesh of the slice that grazed him on the stomach.

“By the sound of your voice, you clearly do not dislike it.” Illumi states, immersed in the hungry opening bleeding tendrils over the hard knobs of muscle firmly etched on Hisoka’s torso; it’s not his fault that digits stray, sticky with blood, near the raw outlines, that the others, careful not to reveal their longing, prod the dark markings accumulating close to the injury.

It’s Hisoka’s fault for looking like he does, he concludes. For revealing himself and not considering that someone might want to disrupt him entirely with dark, dark, dark dots, splashes of harm, scratches running at the downside of his jaw, puncturing holes that would gape at Illumi hungrily from the vast expansion of a toned chest.

Hisoka’s smirk widens the more Illumi prompts his pain.

He fights to not give Hisoka the pleasure of seeing him slurp on a wet finger. Or the sight of his tongue, slipping inside the warm folds of his insides.

He is observing, he justifies, he is taking note of the extent of the damage, measuring how truly hurt he is, and for that he must pinch, stretch, sink, probe and feel.

Give and take; Hisoka called him first, told him he was hurt, said he couldn’t afford Machi’s treatment—this is in no relation to anyone’s personal satisfaction.

The way Hisoka is laying on the ground, leaning on his elbows, yellow peeking through hooded slits and fanning lashes, is not why Illumi is here. Nor is the pretty frame he makes, subdued by his bruises, rendered vulnerable with his shirt riding to his clavicles, tempting in the unexpected acceptance of his situation, of the handling of his wounds, resigned, like he can only lay back and receive whatever he is given, but at the same time derives great gratification from the helplessness of the compromising position he has put himself in.

Hisoka is no battered housewife. That doesn’t mean he has not perfected the looks of one, though, deforming the concept to the farthest extremes of wanton depravity. Forcefully making it his own.

Hisoka laughs, as if he has always known the twisted musings that whisper murder on the shell of his ear.

“Are you going to heal me anytime soon?” He provokes, too smug for Illumi to stand, and the next thing he knows, fingers are buried in the partings of skin.

In spite of his previous struggles, he lets go, and is overwhelmed by the consummation of thoughts he deemed solely proper to examine at night, in his room, and the palpitations of life, the squelching noise of his fingers as they tread through a thick mass of liquid, the viscous contact of that which doesn’t feel like skin at all, sets his navel on fire. Briefly, he cannot move or breathe, but Hisoka bites his lip, arousal darkens his sly, sharp features, and everything about him instantaneously looks sinful, intent enough for Illumi’s fingers to curl mildly and—

If Hisoka cries to the heaven’s, his eyes losing focus, his breaths turning to pants and moans; if his teeth bite into the back of his hand to muffle the proof of how much he wants this; if Illumi vibrates in barely contained excitement at the feel of Hisoka, his blood, and the feverish fervor taking over the two of them, and if his neck is bending low, and Hisoka is a stuttering mess in desperation as foreign but wanted lips wrap around the tremor of a hipbone and slowly kiss their ravenous way to where blood is dripping at a moderate pace…

Well, nobody has to know.

* * *

 

Some say it was the first time they touched when true love knocked on their door; palms accidentally meeting over a fallen object, the catalyst for the unique encounter.

Others say it was the first contact of eyes, finding the shade of the fated one’s irises in a sea of strangers, the shy brushing of pupils across a room.

For Illumi, it was the first time Hisoka came to him covered in several different versions of black, blue and violet.

It was the unknowingly sensuous cut on his bottom lip, bleeding still, making the soft mound of flesh look plump, ripe for exploiting with teeth, ready to burst with life; it was the haughty rise of eyebrows that stood defiant against the gash set across the bridge of his nose, turning the skin there to an anxious dark color that begged to blossom, to bleed its juices free of its prison, to be touched by yearning claws and be ripped open anew; it was the collar of finger prints lining the stretch of his long neck that could have easily been printed in the shape of Illumi’s hand; it was the shadowed stare Hisoka gave him, right lid obscured by coagulated blood, so poignant and bright when the rest of the canvas was blank and pure.

It was that Hisoka looked beautiful when helpless, when he was everything but, when his personality and manners were the contrary of defiled innocence, yet the victimized semblance, the abused flesh, and the needful, pathetic disposition fit him as beautifully as the golden gleam of his eyes; they molded and were as one with the naked vulgarity that was Hisoka whole, with his shameless quips, the nasty tongue, the burning orbs that refused to shield their desire, the body that was both a weapon and a tool to be used.

 Injuries, Illumi had thought then, were at the peak of their glory when they were gently caressed upon Hisoka’s skin.

**Author's Note:**

> Next is Hisoka's turn ;)


End file.
